Come With Me, Go Places
by littlelindentree
Summary: What surprised Sybil most was how easy her family made it, in the end.  Sybil/Branson, AU after 2x05.
1. Chapter 1

This fic goes AU after 2x05, and is basically written to comfort myself in case everything goes to shit. I've decided to focus on hope. The title of the fic and the lyrics used throughout are taken from "Go Places" by The New Pornographers, aka my Sybil/Branson anthem.

Thanks for reading! :)

* * *

><p>I<p>

January, 1919

_Yes, a heart will always go one step too far._  
><em>Come the morning and the four corners I see<em>  
><em>what the moral of the back story could be;<em>  
><em>come with me, go places.<em>

As with all of Sybil's most passionate moments, she had gotten herself in over her head almost before she even decided to dip a toe in the water.

"Come on," Branson said, his voice a whisper in the dark. His bare hand reached out and grasped hers, tugging her along the muddy path. It was well after midnight, and they were taking a secluded route through the lightless woods to an area village where Branson was quite sure they could catch a train without being recognized. They were planning to get the first train to Liverpool.

They were running away.

The more reasonable part of Sybil had never truly thought she would do it, not even as Branson proved himself more determined than hot-headed, staying at Downton to wait for her in spite of her repeated deferrals of his affections.

It wasn't that she didn't care for him, although it had taken her some time to realise just how deeply she did. Rather, it was that she couldn't bear the thought of disappointing and abandoning her family, of doing something so rash and selfish, something that could slice a rift between them so deep that it might never be bridged.

What surprised Sybil most was how easy her family made it, in the end.

It all came to an ugly head one evening in late winter, in the months following the Armistice. The Abbey had only just closed as a convalescent home, and the family was quite relieved to have their home back.

"Of course the real question is," Granny said, as Carson refilled her goblet of wine, "now that this ghastly war is over and things are getting back to normal, when will our dear Sybil start receiving offers?"

Neither of Sybil's parents said anything. They all knew that many of the men to whom Sybil had been introduced in her first season had been killed during the war, or were convalescing somewhere from their wounds. Doubtless Granny was aware of that, but such an inconvenience of mathematics would not be seen as an insurmountable obstacle to her.

Seeing no one had anything to say to this, Sybil cleared her throat delicately. "I'm rather too occupied with the hospital to be concerned with such things just yet, Granny."

"Just yet!" Granny repeated, her eyebrows raised. "Don't be foolish, my girl! Why, you are not a blushing rose of eighteen anymore. There is no time to waste; just look at your poor sisters."

Mary and Edith, engaged to an officer and a newspaperman, respectively, both paused in their eating and stared at their grandmother, as though unsure how vocal they ought to be in their outrage.

"Now, I don't think there is any great hurry, given the peculiar circumstances," Papa said, intervening on his daughters' collective behalf. "I'm sure Sybil is merely doing her duty, assisting with the last strings of the war as they're tied up, so to speak. Isn't that right, Sybil?"

"Well, yes and no," Sybil replied. "Much of what we're dealing with at the moment has to do with the aftermath of the war and the closure of Downton as a convalescent home, of course. But even when the war has truly ended for us and the last soldier has been sent home, there will be plenty of work to do at the village hospital. Dr. Clarkson is always in need of help."

No one said a word, and Sybil became aware that every person at the table was staring at her in something resembling astonishment.

"Darling, you can't be serious," said Mary.

"Perhaps we ought to discuss this at another time," Mama said pointedly, giving Sybil a look which seemed to imply that she had done something wrong. It reminded her of the looks she used to get as a little girl when she'd use the wrong fork, or when she asked "why?" one too many times.

"But why?" Sybil asked. "It's a perfectly polite topic of conversation. Granny asked in a roundabout way what my plans are, and I've told you that I plan to stay on at the hospital as long as Dr. Clarkson has need of me."

"Sybil," Mama said, in the sort of patient tone one reserves for naughty children, "while we all think it very good of you to have taken on nursing during wartime, I think you can agree that the time has come for you to set it aside."

"No, I don't agree," Sybil replied. "Nursing is going to be my career."

When Sybil recalled it later, it would seem almost comical. She might as well have announced that she was planning to become a travelling trapeze artist for the way they all looked at her.

"No," said Papa, shaking his head. "No, I think that's quite out of the question, and that's all we'll have about it this evening."

Sybil stared at her father in bewilderment, but before she could respond, her mother spoke.

"Edith dear," asked Mama, "have you had a moment to write to Captain Smiley about his next visit?"

Edith's face lit up at the mention of her fiancé, and everyone was only too happy to move on to a more cheerful topic of conversation.

Everyone but Sybil, naturally.

* * *

><p>Sybil tried to discuss the matter with her parents over the following days, all in the hope that they might see her view and come around to it. But nothing worked. Every time she broached the subject to either one of them, they were quick to find some other matter to speak of, or some pressing duty to take them away.<p>

It was infuriating. But to Sybil it was also heartbreaking. She had spent over two years as a nurse, working hard to learn and do all she could, becoming a valued member of Dr. Clarkson's staff. Now that the war was over, she was being treated once more like a wayward little girl. With each careless wave of Mama's hand and every clearing of Papa's throat as he pushed his nose deeper into his newspaper, it became clearer to Sybil that they planned to simply wait her out. They hoped she would grow weary of the fight and quietly accept the inevitable.

At times Sybil wondered whether any of her family truly knew her character at all.

Whether they accepted it or not, she would not go meekly into the life of their choosing. Sybil thought that stubborn resistance would be enough, but one grey morning in March, during breakfast, she realised that a much more drastic course of action would be necessary.

The family was eating quietly, each absorbed in their muddled early morning thoughts, when Carson brought the mail. There was a letter for Mary from Sir Richard, and a letter each for her parents.

"Cora, dear," Papa said as he read his letter, "it seems as though the Earl of Harrington will be passing through the area the week after next, and he's bringing his nephew, Jonathan Hales. We'll be able to accommodate them, I hope?"

"Of course," Mama replied, delighted. She turned and smiled at Sybil. "You remember Jonathan Hales, don't you, dear? We were introduced to him the last time we were in town. I believe he was engaged, but I've heard that the arrangement fell through. How sad. Perhaps you will be able to cheer him up during his visit." She paused, her eyebrows raised significantly.

"I'm scheduled to work quite a few shifts in the next fortnight, so I'm not certain that I'll be around much," Sybil replied before picking up her cup and taking a sip of hot, strong tea.

A reply which was perfectly reasonable to Sybil had once again silenced a table full of people. She could feel her mother's and her sisters' eyes on her.

"Surely you can take some time to play host to an old friend," Mama said. "Dr. Clarkson can't possibly expect you to work all the time, can he?"

"I don't work all the time; I work as much as the other nurses do," Sybil replied. "And I would hardly call a fellow I met perhaps twice in London several years ago an 'old friend.'"

"Well, we're sure to cross paths with him during the upcoming season, and I think it would be nice if you two were reintroduced before that time," Mama said.

"I rather thought the traditional season had gone out of vogue," Mary said lightly, raising her eyebrows at Sybil in a helpless expression. It was a type of support, Sybil supposed, and she favoured her sister with a tight smile.

"It was interrupted during the war, perhaps, but it has not been abandoned altogether," Cora replied. "How unthinkable! We'll be going up to London in April this year."

"I won't be," Sybil replied. "I can't simply be absent from work for months at a time and come back expecting my place to still be there. It wouldn't be fair to Dr. Clarkson, or to the other nurses."

"_Robert_," said Mama, looking down the table. All traces of congeniality had disappeared from her face, and Sybil realised with a shock that her mother was furious.

Papa cleared his throat, setting aside his newspaper. "Your mother is quite right, Sybil. It would be terribly rude of you to absent yourself from the Earl and Mr. Hales's visit in such a way. As for town, there is no question about it. We will all be going up to London in April. That is all there is to it."

"I will happily come down on the train to enjoy town when I'm able," Sybil replied. "But I'm spending the season at Downton so I can continue at the hospital. I'll likely stay with the other nurses, in fact, so that the staff needn't bother with me."

"Do not be absurd!" Papa snapped, his face reddening. "Sybil, I think you will agree that your mother and I have been more than accommodating insofar as you helping with the war effort. But there is a time for healthy youthful rebellion, and then there is a time to grow up and accept one's duties. You have reached the time of the latter. Enough is enough, Sybil."

"But I didn't become a nurse just for the war!" Sybil replied, her voice rising with her outrage. "I didn't struggle through my training, through learning to sew wounds and remove limbs and hold a soldier's hand as he died only to abandon the entire thing the minute the war is over! I don't know how to make my ambition any clearer to you, to any of you – I _am_ going to be a nurse. _That_ is all there is to it!"

"How dare you speak to your own father this way?" Papa asked. "How dare you be so ungrateful? We have taken great pains to have Earl Harrington bring his nephew here, all for your benefit!"

"What do you mean?" Sybil asked.

"Sybil," said Mama in a careful, measured tone, "surely you understand that many men of your age have been killed. There aren't many appropriate bachelors left, and you are not getting any younger. We must act quickly to assure you a good match. Surely you must see this."

Sybil looked from Mama to Papa, and then back at her sisters, both of whom were looking down at their plates. They would not look at her; clearly they had known.

Betrayal and humiliation surged inside her as a sour taste settled in the back of her throat. Bitterly she realised how her sisters must have felt in the past, to have their prospects in this life laid so cruelly bare. She supposed she was fortunate to have avoided it for so long.

Sybil pushed her chair back from the table and stood. "Please excuse me," she muttered. "All of a sudden I don't much feel like eating."

If her family spoke or tried to entreat her to stay, Sybil did not hear them. She left the breakfast room and ran across the hallway and up the stairs, not stopping until she was at her chamber door. She threw it open and slammed it behind her, collapsing back against it.

"Begging your pardon, my lady."

Sybil stood up straight. She had forgotten that Anna was making up the rooms. The maid was frozen with Sybil's eiderdown nearly straightened, a concerned expression creasing her brow.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt you," Sybil said. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Are you quite all right, my lady?" asked Anna, coming around the bed. She stood in the middle of the room, looking worriedly at Sybil.

"No," Sybil replied. Her voice broke. "No, I don't think I'm all right at all."

Sybil buried her face in her hands and began to cry. The last time she could recall crying was her first night at nursing school, after Branson dropped her off and proposed to her. She had cried out of loneliness and fear, out of homesickness, and out of heartbreak for the things that could not be.

As Anna gently placed an arm over Sybil's shoulders and whispered softly some benign words of comfort, Sybil wept for all of the same reasons as she had before.

* * *

><p>Branson was bent over working on the engine of Papa's Renault when she wandered out into the yard later that same afternoon. He had lately stopped declaring his love and loyalty to her, instead settling for visiting with her when she passed by the garage, discussing politics and the changes in the world, as they used to. When she told him what her parents had said, he didn't look up from his work.<p>

"Hm," he said. "Suppose it was bound to happen, sooner or later."

"How can you say that?" Sybil sputtered, still angry from her confrontation with her parents. "Surely you don't agree with them?"

"Of course not," Branson replied, straightening up enough to look at her. "But are you surprised, milady? Did you think they would let you carry on with this forever? What's acceptable in wartime isn't acceptable always."

"I... Why, yes, I suppose I _am_ surprised," Sybil said, suddenly feeling foolish as well as angry. "I thought perhaps they would see how important my work is to me. I thought their minds would change. But nothing's changed, Branson. They still expect me to make a good match and settle down in a manor someplace, with my own household to manage."

"Reckon they thought you'd get it all out of your system and want to do just that, settle down. I take it that's not what you want?"

"It's not as though I don't want to get married," Sybil said delicately, aware that this was likely a rather unfair conversation to have with him. "It's just that if I am to marry, I want it to be for love, not for a society match, and I want my husband to respect my autonomy, my dreams!"

Branson leaned a hip against the motorcar and reached for a nearby rag which he used to wipe the oil and grime from his hands. He didn't look at Sybil, instead frowning down at the ground.

"I know what it is you're thinking," Sybil said.

"You'd have to be pretty thick not to," Branson replied frankly. "And one thing you're not is thick. You know how I feel about you and what I want. There's no sense in my repeating it to you. All that matters to me is whether you love me, and until you sort that out, neither of us is going anywhere."

He turned and shut the bonnet of the motorcar with a decisive bang.

"I have to go get cleaned up so I can fetch the Dowager Countess," he said, and turned to head for the chauffeur's cottage beyond the garage. He paused and looked back at her. "I'm sorry your family has disappointed you. I know they love you in their way. Only I wish they could see what I see when I look at you."

Branson walked off into the dark cottage, disappearing from view, and Sybil stood in the yard staring at the motorcar.

All at once there was significantly less doubt in her mind as to what she ought to do.

* * *

><p>"Dr. Clarkson?"<p>

The doctor looked up from the tidy stack of papers on his desk, and favoured Sybil with a faint smile. Dr. Clarkson was brusque and at times unbending in his adherence to rules and order, but during her time working with him, Sybil had found him to be a kind and honourable man, and she had grown to admire him for all that he did for their patients. For his part he had often complimented the quality of her work, and she suspected he had grown rather fond of her.

"What can I do for you, Nurse Crawley?"

"I was wondering if I might have a word with you," she asked.

"Certainly," he replied. "Come right in."

Sybil entered his office and closed the door behind her, standing before him with her hands clasped.

"Dr. Clarkson, I wondered if I might ask you for a letter of reference," she said bluntly.

Dr. Clarkson frowned. "I hope this is not your way of telling me that you are planning to leave the hospital."

"No, it isn't. Although I must tell you that my family has become eager to see me settled down."

Dr. Clarkson looked at her for a moment, and then sighed. "No, I don't suppose you'll be permitted to continue on much longer, now that the war is over."

"No, I won't. Of course I'll continue on as long as I'm able. But the reason I've asked for a letter of reference is just..." she paused. "You see, nursing has meant a great deal to me. More than almost any other thing in my life. So the thought of having to give it up pains me. But if I must, I thought perhaps it might be a comfort to have with me your recommendation, as though I were going on to another post. I suppose you'll think me terribly silly."

"On the contrary," Dr. Clarkson replied, smiling. "It would make me only too pleased to put down in writing what a diligent, thorough nurse you have been, and that your eagerness to learn and to help both patients and your fellow staff has made you a credit to this establishment and a blessing for the soldiers who have found themselves here."

"Thank you," Sybil said softly, her throat tight. "That would mean a great deal to me."

"Truly it has been my pleasure." Dr. Clarkson sighed again. "I must say the thought of being without you fills me with regret. You will have to give us plenty of notice as to when you'll be leaving, when it does happen, so that we might give you a proper send-off."

"I will."

"See that you do. I'll have that letter for you tomorrow," Dr. Clarkson said. He picked up his pen and carried on with the work he'd been doing when Sybil interrupted.

"Thank you," Sybil repeated, turning away. She opened the door and slipped out of his office. She paused a moment in the empty corridor, listening to the sounds of the patients and the nurses in the nearby wards echoing down the halls.

_Thank you for everything_, she thought.

* * *

><p>Dr. Clarkson was true to his promise. Two days later, Sybil returned home from her shift at the hospital with a letter tucked safely inside her coat. She stowed it in a vanity drawer in her bed chamber, and did not speak a word of it to anyone. Not even Anna when she came up to help Sybil dress for dinner.<p>

It pained Sybil to know that she would now have to be secretive and careful from now on. Terribly careful. But she had done it before when it mattered, and she would do it now.

"Fortune favours the bold," she said to herself before adjusting her gown and walking out to meet her sisters in the corridor, an unassuming smile on her face.

After a long evening of conversation about the weather, and the tangled web of politics emerging in the aftermath of the war, and gossip about various acquaintances, everyone retired to their chambers. When Anna came in to help Sybil undress, she tilted her head, their reflections regarding one another in Sybil's vanity mirror.

"Are you all right this evening, my lady?" Anna asked.

"Oh yes," Sybil replied. "Much better than I was the other day. It all seems so silly now. Thank you, Anna."

Anna watched her for a moment longer, and then nodded. "Glad to hear it, my lady."

When Anna had gone, Sybil sat up reading for some time, until the sounds of her family and the servants in the house died down, and all fell quiet. She stood and put on her shoes and her coat over her night dress. She stopped at her door, listening closely, until she was sure that everyone had gone to bed. She fetched the letter from her vanity and stole out of the room, hurrying along the dark hallway and down the back staircase. She did not encounter a single person as she exited through an ill-used garden entrance, and was soon walking across the yard to the garage.

A light was glowing through the windows of the low brick building, and it warmed her heart to see it.

The door was ajar, and as she approached, Sybil could hear the sound of humming, although it was not a tune she recognized. She stopped just short of the doorway and listened as Branson finished his song, abruptly switching to low, off-key singing.

"_She is handsome, she is pretty, she is the belle of Belfast city; she is courting, one-two-three; please won't you tell me, who is she?_"

Sybil winced. What was said about the Irish being a musical people was obviously not universally true, for Branson appeared to be entirely tone deaf.

She stepped into the doorway and found Branson sitting on a wooden box, cleaning an array of tools laid out in neat rows on a piece of canvas at his feet.

"What are you doing up so late?" she asked.

Branson jumped, dropping the wrench in his hand to the floor with a noisy clatter.

"Good God Almighty," he said. "You scared the living daylights out of me, milady."

"I'm sorry," Sybil smiled. "I wasn't certain whether you would still be awake so late, but I wanted to wait until everyone in the house was asleep."

"I couldn't sleep," Branson said, standing and wiping his hands off on a rag. He leaned against the wooden workbench behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. "What can I do for you? It seems very late for a drive to Ripon."

Sybil pulled the letter from her coat and stepped forward, holding it out to him.

"What's this?" he asked, taking it from her. He read it quickly, a crease forming between his brows. "I'm not sure I understand."

"It's a letter of reference from Dr. Clarkson," she replied.

"So it is, and a very fine one at that. But why have you brought it to me?"

"Well," Sybil said, her voice faltering even as her gaze on him did not waver, "I thought it might be enough to find me a place as a nurse elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" he echoed. "Are you going someplace?"

"I think so," she replied. "I would like to go someplace else. I don't know where. To be honest, I don't think I much care, so long as it's away from here, and as long as I can work."

Branson had gone very still, staring at her with a bewildered expression on his face. "Do you mean -"

"Would you ever forbid me from working or pursuing my interests and ambitions on account of my being a woman?"

He continued to stare at her, and then swallowed. "No, I wouldn't," he said hoarsely.

Sybil nodded. "And would you expect me to be content for the whole of my life only with being a wife and a mother, with making you happy and being your helpmeet?"

"I wouldn't," he replied.

"Well," Sybil said, raising her eyebrows. "In that case, where would you like to go? You've put some thought into this, I imagine, so you must have some ideas as to where we might go."

"Don't torment me," Branson replied, setting the letter down on the workbench behind him. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I am," she replied. "Will you go with me now, or have I missed my opportunity? Must I go alone?"

The expression on Branson's face was indescribable. He seemed caught at some strange crossroads of joy and disbelief and agony. Then his face broke into a wide grin, and he grabbed her to him, hugging her close.

"It's been so long since we even talked about it, I had started to think that perhaps – well, I reckon it doesn't matter now," he said hurriedly, his words tripping over one another in their rush to have themselves heard. He pulled back to look at her.

"Are you sure?" Branson asked, holding her upper arms in his hands. "Only you must be very sure. Once we go, there'll be no turning back, milady. Running away with the chauffeur isn't something even a reputation as sterling as yours is likely to recover from."

"I'm sure," Sybil replied. "I wasn't before, but I am now. I have no other choice."

Branson eyed her for a long moment, and then abruptly dropped his hands from her and turned away. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse, and then kicked the wooden box he had been sitting on.

"Branson!" Sybil cried, surprised.

"You should go," Branson said in a weary tone of voice, without turning back to look at her. "You should go back to the house before you're missed."

"I don't understand," Sybil replied. "I've told you that I want to run away with you, and now you want me to go back to the house?"

"That's the trouble, milady," Branson said. "You don't want to run away with me, you just want to run away."

Sybil stared at him, understanding with a sickening turn of her stomach where she had gone wrong. She blinked hard as tears burned at her eyes.

"I see," Sybil replied, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "I'm sorry if I've hurt you. That has never been my intention, you must know. Only it is not so easy for all of us to know the whole contents of our hearts as it is for you, Branson. I envy you that. You must be far less confused than I am." She turned to go. "I'll leave you now. I'm sorry."

Branson sighed harshly and grabbed hold of her sleeve, stopping her. "Wait, don't go."

Sybil stopped. His hand slipped down to hold hers, and his eyes were so tender as he looked at her that she almost could not bear it. His love for her was so real it seemed like a palpable thing hovering in the air between them. Her eyes dropped to his lips, and suddenly she felt brave enough to follow the path her heart had been pulling her down for a very long time.

She took a step towards him and, knitting her fingers with his, kissed him.

Branson inhaled sharply through his nose, and his hands came up to cradle her jaw and rest against her neck. One hand slid down her shoulders to press against her back, holding her close to him. Sybil wrapped her arms around his neck and held him also, and sighed as something warm and sweet began to open in the centre of her chest.

It felt rather like hope, like things might not be as dire as she feared.

Branson broke the kiss, one hand still cupping her cheek. "I wonder if I'm dreaming," he said.

"You're not dreaming," Sybil replied, shaking her head. She smiled. "I want to go. I'm ready to go."

Branson smiled, and caught both of her hands in his.

"In that case," he said, pulling her in the direction of his rooms at the back of the garage, "we'd best make ourselves a plan."


	2. Chapter 2

A couple of quick things. First, thank you so much for the kind reviews! I'm very glad to know that people enjoyed the first part, so thanks! :)

Second, I wrote a significant portion of this fic, including this chapter, before 2x07 aired. So you can imagine my amusement when I found that I overestimated Sybil & Branson's cunning as far as eloping is concerned. Third, because in this story Sybil decides to run away with Branson a little earlier than she does in the series, their relationship develops differently than what we've seen in the series up to 2x08, making this fic firmly AU after 2x05. So bear with me. :)

* * *

><p>II<p>

_And a heart will always stay one day too long,_  
><em>always hoping for the hot flashes to come,<em>  
><em>for the glue to dry on our new creation;<em>  
><em>come with me, go places.<em>

Sybil said nothing more about nursing to her family. She arranged her shifts with the other nurses so that she would be present for more of the Earl's visit. She did not visit Branson at the garage. She smiled and laughed. She accompanied her sisters to the seamstress to have new gowns made for London. She entertained Mr. Hales when he arrived, walking him about the gardens and sitting beside him at dinner as her parents beamed.

She hid a valise at the back of her wardrobe. She went through every piece of jewellery she owned and decided which pieces to sell and which were dear enough to keep. She wrote and crumpled and burned dozens of goodbye letters to her family. She stood in the empty library and traced her finger across the parchment in Papa's atlas, following the route they would take, across the Irish Sea.

She waited. With patience she did not realise she possessed, she waited, until nearly two weeks passed and the night of a carefully planned dinner party arrived. A carefully planned dinner party and a carefully planned escape.

The dinner was lovely, as lovely as the best dinner parties Mama threw before the war came. The meal was one of Mrs. Patmore's best, and the conversation sparkling. Afterwards, the party retired to the parlour. Sybil hung back by the door, watching her family and their guests talk and laugh and mingle, the room awash in the soft amber glow of the lamps. Papa leaned down and to speak into Mama's ear, and she laughed, the rich pearls on her ears dancing as she shook her head. It was lovely, as perfect as a postcard, and Sybil hoped Downton would remain this way always in her memory.

The thought of Branson downstairs, anxiously waiting for the guests to leave so that he could dispense with his duties, brought a tight sensation to her chest and a smile to her face.

Mary approached her, a glass of port in each hand. She held one out to Sybil, who accepted it with a nod of thanks.

"Is something bothering you, darling?" Mary asked. "Only you've been quiet all evening, and at the moment you've got the strangest expression on your face."

"Do I?" Sybil asked.

"You do. It's... Oh, I don't know." Mary shook her head. "You look the same as you did the day you left for your nurse training in York. Sad and happy all at once, I suppose."

Sybil looked at her sister's curious face, and thought she was doing a dreadful thing, being dishonest with her. The way Mary was with her was not the same as how she was with other people. Mary had always been kind to her, a protector and a confidant in all things. All things but this.

"Nothing's bothering me," Sybil replied, giving an indifferent lift of her shoulders. "What do you think of Mr. Hales? He is quite nice, don't you think?"

Mary raised an eyebrow, and then turned to examine the man, who stood across the room by the mantelpiece, talking with Papa. "He's all right, I suppose," Mary said unenthusiastically, before launching into a dry critique of Mr. Hales's various shortcomings.

Sybil examined her sister's profile, and the graceful line of her neck, and the exquisite beading of her gown, and the long silk gloves that covered her slender arms, and the lovely sapphire engagement ring on her finger.

_I hope you'll be happy_, Sybil thought. _I hope you'll forgive me._

The rest of the evening passed in a blur, and soon the guests were leaving. Sybil said goodbye to Granny at the door, grasping her elbows and pressing a quick kiss to the woman's dry cheek.

"My goodness!" Lady Violet said. "Let's not fall to pieces over a mere farewell, my girl."

"No, Granny," Sybil replied, smiling as she departed. She caught a glimpse through the front door of Branson waiting by the car, and she turned away, her heart pounding in her chest. It wouldn't do to give anything away now.

They all lingered in the entranceway a few minutes longer, as though no one wanted the night to end. Finally Papa announced that it was time for bed, and they went upstairs and parted ways in the long corridor that contained their bedchambers.

"You were lovely," Mama said to her, kissing her cheek. "Mr. Hales seemed very smitten indeed."

"That's enough, darling," said Papa. He kissed Sybil as well. "It won't do to pressure the girl."

Sybil forced herself to smile, and turned away before either of her parents could look at her too closely, or too long.

She walked to her chamber doorway and stood there as her sisters said goodnight to her and retired into their own rooms. Her parents disappeared down the corridor to their chamber, arm-in-arm and a halo of light surrounding them from the lamp Papa carried in his hand.

"Goodnight," she whispered, watching as the light faded down the corridor, and all fell silent.

She went into her room, and closed the door behind her.

* * *

><p>Anna had finished undressing her and gone. The house was quiet. Sybil's valise was packed and sitting at the foot of her bed. A letter to her family lay on her pillow. She was dressed in her most practical and unfussy dress, and her coat and shoes and hat were on. Her gloves were held tightly in one hand.<p>

She stood in the middle of the room, forcing herself to breathe deeply and regularly.

It was time. There was no more waiting left to do.

Giving herself a shake, Sybil slipped on her gloves and picked up her valise, and then turned out the lights. She eased her chamber door open as quietly as she could, and stole out into the hallway. Everything was dark; even Carson had gone to bed. She walked quickly down the corridor towards the servants' staircase.

She reached the doorway, and opened it, and ran straight into Edith.

Her older sister stood in the dark stairwell with a lit lamp in one hand. Her hair was down and she was in her dressing gown, and the lamp cast harsh shadows on her face.

"Edith!" Sybil gasped, nearly dropping the valise.

"You must think us all terribly stupid if you think no one noticed what you were up to in the last fortnight," Edith said softly.

Sybil stared open-mouthed for a moment before recovering. "Yet you're the only one who did, aren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose I am," Edith replied, faltering slightly. "You were acting so strangely, going along with all of this Mr. Hales business as though you'd never objected. I ought to have gone straight to Papa when I realised what you were doing, but I suppose I wanted to confirm my suspicions absolutely. You've been reckless in the past, but part of me didn't want to believe that you could be so foolish."

"Edith, please -"

"You mustn't do this. It's terribly selfish of you, don't you think?" Edith asked.

"How? How is it selfish? You and Mary are both as good as settled. I'm not hurting anyone's reputation but my own."

"You're the youngest. You always did insist on having your way, and you almost always got it, in the end," Edith mused, although her tone held no rancour.

"But it's my life!" Sybil replied, struggling to keep her voice down. "Why shouldn't I have my own way? Can't you see that if I don't go with him, if I can't follow my heart and be a nurse, I'll regret it for the rest of my life?"

"Mama and Papa will be devastated," Edith said. "Have you thought of that? They'll be sick with fear for you. We all would have been."

"I left a letter," Sybil replied, defensive at the idea that she could be so insensitive to their feelings. "I explained everything. I was going to write as soon as we got where we're going, to let you know that I'm all right."

"And where is that?"

Sybil stared at her sister, her throat tightening. "I can't tell you that, of course."

"I see," Edith replied, her mouth thinning into a line.

"But I will tell you something I've never told anyone, that no one but me knows."

Edith's eyes were round and curious in the light, and she blinked. "What's that?"

"I love Tom Branson. Truly. And I'll never love another."

"Oh, Sybil," Edith sighed. "Isn't there another way?"

"Please, Edith. I beg you. As my sister, please keep my secret. I'm only asking you to wait a few hours. Everyone will realise what's happened in the morning, anyway. For you to do this for me would be the most precious gift, and I would never forget my debt to you."

Edith continued to stare at her, and then she turned away. "Go, quickly, before I change my mind."

Sybil leaned in and kissed her sister's cheek. "I will never forget this kindness, Edith."

"Go," Edith repeated, seeming somewhat stunned.

"Goodbye," Sybil said, gripping her valise tightly in her hand and skirting around her sister to hurry down the stairs. She paused on the steps, and the last thing she saw was Edith's face through the balustrade, illuminated by the flickering lamplight. Her sister's eyes shone with tears.

Sybil's heart was in her throat as she rushed down the stairs and let herself out through the back garden. There was no time to waste; who knew whether Edith might change her mind. She hurried down the gravel path, towards the dark garage, where they had agreed to meet. She turned the corner and found Branson pacing up and down the walk by the side of the building. He stopped at the sound of her approach and turned around. It was the first time Sybil had ever seen him dressed in anything but his chauffeur's uniform. He was wearing a plain brown suit and trousers that had seen better days, but were clean and pressed, and he had a cap on his head. In the moonlight, Sybil could only see part of his worried expression.

"There you are," he whispered harshly, walking to her and taking her hand. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Was starting to think you'd changed your mind."

"I haven't," she replied. "I ran into Edith."

Branson's eyes widened, and he glanced up at the house as though he expected a mob with torches to be coming after him at any moment.

"It's all right," Sybil assured him. "She's not going to give us away."

"If you believe her, I suppose I do," Branson said, not sounding entirely convinced. "But are you very sure now, Sybil? This is it. You must be entirely sure."

"I'm sure," Sybil replied.

"All right," he nodded, hefting his bag onto his back and taking her free hand. "Let's go."

They walked down the drive past the garage and Branson's cottage and the stables, until the gravel beneath their feet petered into a dirt road. Later still it would become little more than a narrow dirt track as it veered into the woods. The moon was the only light to be had, and Sybil paused to look back at the house in the distance. Downton looked cold and austere in the blue moonlight, its dark windows producing no light to cheer it. She swallowed, and turned away.

They walked in silence. It was strange; Sybil could not recall a time when she and Branson had been together for any significant length of time and not talked. Even during those awkward times following his proposals, they had discussed the war and politics at least. He held her hand in his, his strides hurried. Although it was dim, Sybil's eyes had adjusted enough that a sidelong glance at his face revealed his anxiety. He was scared. She supposed he was right to be.

Sybil laced her fingers with his and squeezed. It seemed to remove him from his worried reverie, for he glanced at her.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "I hate to make you walk so far, but I didn't think it sporting to steal the man's youngest daughter and his motorcar all in one night." He smiled weakly at her.

"I'm quite all right," she replied. "I'm used to being on my feet. In any case, it was wise. We would get farther faster in the car, but we would be easier to identify, I expect. Not to mention the noise of it would likely have woken the whole house at this hour."

"Reckon you're right. I want to get a little bit farther before daybreak, get some distance, but we should be able to find a place to stop soon enough. What do you think?"

"What sort of a place do you mean?"

"A barn, I suppose, or some other out-of-the-way place where we can rest a bit without being discovered."

"Hm," Sybil said noncommittally, frowning. Of course she knew what running away with Branson _meant_, and knew that once they were married, they would be spending all of their nights together. It was only that she had not given much thought to the nights that would precede their wedding, her mind too occupied with planning the elopement itself.

The idea that shortly they would be alone together truly for the first time gave her a moment of pause. What would he expect of her? What did she expect of him? She examined her feelings and found she was not sure.

Branson did not seem to notice her thoughtfulness, and they walked on in silence until the eastern horizon began to lighten, and the first birds of the morning began to softly chirp their songs from high in the trees.

"There," Branson said, pointing ahead of them at a low stone barn in a field, barely visible through the grey haze of mist that surrounded them as the sun began to approach the horizon.

"Do you think the farmer will mind?" Sybil asked as they clambered through a section of dilapidated rail fence.

"I don't plan on his finding out," Branson replied cheerfully.

They made their way to the barn, where Branson forced the door open. The structure had obviously not been used in some time, and there were no animals or tools housed there. It was dark and a little decrepit; certainly not a place where they were liable to be disturbed. But the haymow above was dry and clean, if rather dusty and lacking in the heaps of sweet-smelling hay Sybil had imagined.

Once they had picked their way up the ladder, Branson pulled a blanket from his bag and spread it out over the modest pile of hay. He removed his cap and his jacket, folding the latter up into a pillow and setting it down on the makeshift bed.

They sat in the hay on either side of the blanket and each avoided the other's eyes. As she shakily removed her hat and her coat, Sybil was grateful for the lack of light, for if her expression betrayed her anxiety, at least he could not see it.

"Are you hungry?" Branson asked, gesturing at the bundle of bread and cheese he'd liberated from the kitchens that afternoon.

"No, I think I'm all right. But you go ahead if you'd like. I won't mind."

"No, I don't think I could eat," Branson replied, loosening the tie at his neck before unbuttoning the top button on his shirt. Sybil watched him, fascinated and apprehensive in equal measures. It was such an intimate act to witness. Branson glanced over at her, his face mostly in shadow.

"Not much of a wedding night, I'm afraid," he said.

"Yes, but we're not married yet, are we?"Sybil replied. "So it isn't, really. It's rather more like a reverse honeymoon, I think."

Branson scoffed. "A honeymoon in a barn? Reckon I've got a fair bit more pride than you have."

"Grand surroundings aren't everything."

"Glad to hear you think so," Branson said, smiling warmly.

Sybil eyed him for a moment, and then cleared her throat. "Branson -"

"I think it would be all right if you called me Tom now," he interrupted.

"I suppose you're right," Sybil replied. "Tom."

"Sybil."

Something warm flushed through her chest at the way he said her name. It had never sounded like that before, coming from anyone else.

"Tom," she said softly, testing the word, "the thing is, I know that we're not properly married yet, but do you want to – or, do you think we ought to – that is, what I mean to say -" Sybil could feel a blush climbing up her chest to her neck and into her cheeks. It was so silly, really – there was no shame in a frank discussion of such things with the man who would soon be her husband. Yet she could not seem to make the words come out. Frustrated, she leaned forward and kissed him, hoping her actions would communicate something her words could not.

After a moment, Branson pulled away, exhaling an odd sort of sigh. "Don't think I'm not tempted, but..." he paused, seeming to struggling for the right words as much as she had. It was strange indeed to see Tom Branson at a loss. "We're hunkered down in a dank old barn. Doesn't seem the place," he said finally.

"Only I'm trying to be practical," Sybil said. "If you ruin me, it won't matter if they catch us. We'd be as good as married and I'd be unfit to marry anyone they'd throw at me. Then they might as well let us go."

"I don't want to _ruin_ you," Branson replied, grimacing at Sybil's choice of words. "I want to _marry_ you. This isn't about beating your family in a game of chase. I want to do this right. I want it right there in ink that I'm your husband and you're my wife, and nobody can say a word about it. In any case, there've been plenty of 'ruined' ladies, as you say, who've found themselves in patched up marriages that swept the whole thing under a rug. I don't wish to speak ill of your parents, but I wouldn't put it past them if they thought they could manage it. They'd think it was best for you."

Sybil chewed her bottom lip at the thought of her parents. Sometime in the next few hours, her empty bed and her note would be discovered. Her stomach turned over as the gravity of their situation came rushing back to her. It was easy not to think about what she was really doing, what with all the excitement of the last few hours. She had successfully kept thoughts of their uncertain future at bay for hours, but now she could not help but consider what might happen to them.

What if her parents came after them? What if they found them before they could get to Ireland? What if they had Tom arrested, or sent away? What if they tried to force her into a marriage to stifle the scandal?

What if, when all was said and done and she and Branson were married, they never spoke to her ever again?

"Do you know, Tom, I'm rather frightened," Sybil whispered.

He moved across the blanket to sit right next to her, drawing her head to his shoulder and wrapping an arm around her back. He made a gentle shushing sound.

"Don't fret about things that haven't even happened," he said softly. "It'll turn out all right for us, love. You'll see. We'll get some rest here and then carry on, and it'll be all right. I know it will."

Sybil nodded, pressing herself against the solid warmth of him. "I'm glad we're here together. I wouldn't want to do this with anyone else."

"Likewise," Branson replied, and he kissed the top of her head. "Are you cold?"

"A little," she said.

Branson sighed. "I'm sorry we couldn't stay some place with a fireplace and hot food, a proper place. It isn't the money that's the problem. I just didn't think it safe."

Sybil lifted her head and kissed him. "It's no matter. We'll just have to keep each other warm."

And Sybil fell asleep in that dingy haymow a short time later, with Branson's arms around her, their hands clasped together at her stomach, and his face pressed against her hair.

* * *

><p>The rest of their journey to Liverpool went so without incident that Sybil began to wonder what troubles awaited them further down the road. After resting in the haymow for a few hours, they woke at midday and continued on their way, walking in the woods along the road so that they might not be seen by passing travellers. As they walked, Branson picked bits of hay from her hair and teased her by informing her that she snored.<p>

"They're very delicate, ladylike snores, mind," he said, turning to look at her. He reached out and tapped the end of her nose with his forefinger. "Must be that aristocratic nose of yours."

Sybil wrinkled the offending body part at him. "I think I prefer snoring, be it ladylike or not, to all the talking you do in your sleep. Don't you have your fill of the sound of your own voice during the daytime?"

Branson scowled at her, blushing, and made a grab for her hat.

"Rude!" Sybil cried as she hopped out of his reach, their laughter echoing in the stillness of the damp late winter woods.

Late in the afternoon, a man driving an empty wagon passed on the road, and obliged them by giving them a lift as far as Skipton. There they felt safe catching a train, and bought two tickets on the evening run to Liverpool. They had a few hours to spend, and so they found a pub around the corner from the train station. There, Branson bought Sybil her very first pint of ale, and watched her drink it with a strange little smile on his face.

"What is it?" Sybil asked, self-conscious. "I suppose I've got froth on my nose, haven't I?"

"No," Branson replied. "It's just... That's the first thing I've ever bought for you myself."

Touched, Sybil smiled. "Why Mr. Branson, I'm shocked. Here I thought you were a socialist, and opposed to capitalism."

"Certainly," he laughed. "But I'm also a human being, and the idea that it's within my power to make you happy makes me very happy indeed."

Sybil looked at him in the warm amber glow of the pub's low lights, and marvelled at the ability he had to arrest her with his earnestness, as though he could not help but express his feelings for her at every turn. She had never met anyone like him before.

They ate the rest of their meal in companionable silence, and then walked back to the station hand in hand. They boarded a short time later, and it seemed to Sybil that the train had scarcely pulled away from the platform before she had dozed off, her head resting on Branson's shoulder.

* * *

><p>"I'm not really all that fond of pearls, to be quite honest with you," Sybil said.<p>

It was early morning, and the two of them were stood in the shop of a Liverpool pawnbroker, selling Sybil's jewellery. The money was needed for their crossing to Dublin, but much to Sybil's irritation, Branson seemed to have reservations about using the jewels she'd brought for this exact purpose. The pawnbroker stood behind his counter with Sybil's pearls and garnets and jet laid out before him, a bemused expression on his face.

"Are you sure?" Branson asked, frowning. "Only it seems wrong somehow, you having to sell your pretty things just so we can get -"

"Tom Branson," Sybil said firmly, "I really do insist. You're an enlightened thinker – consider it my equal contribution to our venture. I can't have you spending every penny you have on the train and our passage. Or, if you'd rather, you can consider it an act of socialist rebellion. I doubt anyone in my family ever worked for the money used to buy it."

A smile tugged at the corner of Branson's mouth, and he nodded. "All right then, if you're certain. With any luck someday I'll be able to replace some of it."

"Goodness! I would love to have a – what did you call it once? Oh, a 'shallow expression of bourgeois sentimentality!'"

"I did not call your jewellery that," Branson protested.

"You did so!" Sybil replied, watching as the pawnbroker tallied the value of her jewellery. "Papa got me a pair of opal earrings for my eighteenth birthday, and the very first time I wore them out, you sat up in the driver's seat carrying on about the dreadfulness of the ruling class's excesses the whole time as though I was wearing pure gold from head to toe. Honestly!"

As the pawnbroker counted off a tidy pile of pound notes and handed them to her, Sybil glanced up to see Branson staring at her fondly. He gave his head a shake and leaned in, kissing her cheek.

Sybil felt her face flush with happiness and a little embarrassment. She tucked the money into her pocketbook, thanked the pawnbroker, and took the arm Branson offered her as they walked out of the shop and back in the direction of the docks.

It was a sunny day, and the breeze held warmth that hinted at the coming spring. Sybil was conscious of the money in her pocketbook, for she was unused to carrying large sums of money. Or any money, really. She glanced at Branson.

"Do you not mind my carrying the money, then?" she asked.

Branson frowned. "Why would I mind it? It's your money."

"It's _our_ money," Sybil corrected. "It just strikes me as strange, I suppose. I was never allowed money before. Credit wherever we went, certainly, but it's not quite the same, is it?"

"No, it isn't," Branson agreed. "Only the thing is it's not my place to allow or not allow you anything."

"And when we're married?"

Branson stopped short by the side of the road and regarded her with a curious look on his face. "I don't wish to marry you to keep you under my thumb. I want to marry you because I love you, and because you're my dearest friend, and I want to be with you always. Everything else I reckon we can sort out between us, as equal partners with equal interests, as we go along."

"All right," Sybil agreed, unable to find the words to say anything more. To hear Branson's somewhat radical ideas about marriage summed up thusly was strange yet comforting all at once.

"All right," Branson repeated, smiling. He put her arm in his once more, and they continued to the docks to buy passage on the next ferry to Dublin.

* * *

><p>"I wish I had a camera so I could take your picture," Branson said, raising his voice to be heard over the strong breeze that blew around them, and the cries of the seabirds that tracked the ferry. "The sea air does you good, milady."<p>

Sybil smiled and turned her head away, watching as the west coast of England receded into the horizon. Soon there would be a sea between her and her family. She wondered what they were doing, _how_ they were doing. With a stab of regret, she hoped Mama and Papa weren't too worried.

After all, she thought with a sigh, there was nothing to worry about. She was a young woman with a free will of her own, which she was using to choose her own future.

There was nothing to worry about at all.

"Are you ever going to stop calling me that?" she asked, glancing at him.

"What?"

"'My lady,'" she replied.

"Probably not," Branson shrugged. "Do you prefer 'Your Ladyship'?"

Sybil laughed and gripped the railing in her hands as she leaned over to catch a glimpse of the grey sea beneath them, churning white against the hull of the ferry. When she stood up straight, Branson was leaning his forearms on the railing, gazing west, towards Ireland.

He stood there with his cap tipped back on his head, the strong wind pulling strands of fair hair loose. Gulls coasted on the air, and a group of small children played nearby, their laughter almost lost on the breeze. All at once Sybil felt young and free, as though her heart had wings that could carry her high over any obstacle. In that moment she believed truly that whatever trials they faced, whatever disappointments and heartaches and misunderstandings, there would never be a moment in this life when Tom Branson's face would not be as dear to her as anything could possibly be.

It was a feeling that was at once thrilling and frightening. For it was only a belief, and there were many things she had once believed which turned out to be untrue.

Branson seemed to sense her stare, for his eyes slid to her and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "What're you thinking on so hard?"

"I don't know," she lied. "It's rather difficult to put into words."

Branson gave her a curious look, and then reached over and took her hand in his.

"This'll be quite the tale to tell our grandchildren someday, don't you think?" he asked, after a moment.

Sybil thought of it, of sons and daughters raised to believe that they could be anything they wished in the world, that they could have any kind of life, and for it to really be true. Their children might go to university and become doctors, lawyers, politicians. Sybil glanced over to find Branson watching her. He believed that all of this was possible, in spite of the odds, in spite of everything. Sybil felt as though every minute cell in her body leaned towards that, towards him, towards hope, and she closed her eyes and prayed that somehow it might all come true.

"Yes," she said, squeezing his hand and standing closer to him, relishing the feel of the salt spray on her face. "Yes, I rather think it will be."

Branson's arm came around her shoulders, holding her close, and Sybil wondered whether one leap of faith, one act of bravery, was enough to purchase one a life filled with nothing but the happiness she felt at that very moment.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for the lovely response on the first two parts. Sorry this bit took so long - I got stuck in a writing rut after the series 2 finale, and the holidays complicated things as well. Hopefully it won't be such a long wait for the next part. Happy New Year! :)

* * *

><p>III<p>

_Yes, a heart should always go one step too far._  
><em>Come the morning and the day winding like dreams,<em>  
><em>come the morning every blue shade of green;<em>  
><em>come with me, go places.<em>

It was night when they reached the west side of the Irish Sea, and Sybil's first glimpse of Dublin was through a heavy fog.

"I wrote my ma to tell her we were coming, but I never did hear back," Branson said as they waited to disembark. "There wasn't time. But I'm sure it'll be fine."

Sybil examined his profile. Branson seemed confident of his family's welcome, but she found herself beset by an anxiety she hadn't previously had much time to entertain. She had wondered before, of course, but suddenly it was an immediate concern: What would his family think of her?

Sybil worried her bottom lip. She would have asked him, except it seemed rather too late to ask such a question as that, and she suspected that the answer Tom would give her would contain more optimism than truth.

They made their way off the ferry with the other passengers, and Sybil found herself standing on Irish soil for the first time. Or Irish docks, at least.

"Well," Sybil said, holding tight to the handle of her valise and trying to regain her confidence. "I hope you know the way from here, for we're rather more in your element than mine, now."

Branson pulled his cap down more firmly on his head and was on the verge of a reply when there came a shout through the darkness.

"Tommy!"

Branson peered off into the distance a moment before giving an excited sort of yelp that made Sybil jump. He ran forward a few steps to meet a man who came jogging towards them. Branson nearly threw himself at him, and the two of them greeted each other noisily, each one clapping the other on the back.

Finally Branson seemed to remember Sybil and broke the embrace, leading the other man to her with a wave of his hand. The man was taller than Branson, and leaner. His hair was darker than Branson's and reddish, and his face showed wear that Branson's didn't. But he had the same clear blue eyes.

"My," said the man as he approached, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Who's this now?"

"My name is Sybil Crawley," she replied, not waiting for Branson to introduce her. She stuck out her hand.

The man looked at her hand for a moment before glancing at Branson, a sardonic smile crossing his face. He grasped her hand in his for a brief moment before letting it go. "The name's Danny Branson, and the pleasure's all mine."

"In fact she's _Lady_ Sybil Crawley," Branson said, coming to stand at her side and taking her hand. "For now, anyhow."

"Oh goodness," Sybil said, frowning. "Don't introduce me that way, for heaven's sake. In any case, I'm not entirely certain, but I think I may have relinquished any claim to that title when I ran off with you in the dead of night." Branson grinned.

"Ah," said Danny, looking down as he dug around in his coat. He produced a cigarette and lit it, tossing the match aside. "Ma was mighty pleased to hear that you were on your way home to us, but I have to tell you, Tommy, I don't think she quite believed you when you said you were bringing the Earl's daughter with you."

"Hell," Branson swore, rolling his eyes. "What did she think I meant?"

"I'm not sure," Danny laughed. "But I reckon you'll soon get an earful. Come on. I've got the motorcar parked just up here."

Danny led the way, and Sybil only half-listened as Branson explained that Danny and their brother Patrick worked as drivers for a taxi company, which is how Branson had gotten his start as a chauffeur when he was younger. Sybil tried to take the story in, but truthfully she was too busy worrying about what Mrs. Branson would have to say when they showed up on her doorstep.

Danny drove them through the dark, damp streets of Dublin, complaining that he'd been at the docks for every ferry arrival since Branson's letter, not knowing which one they'd be on. As Branson leaned forward to talk to his brother, Sybil stared out the window. It all felt rather like a strange dream until Branson's hand found hers on the seat. With a start, Sybil turned to look at him.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his brows drawn together in concern.

Sybil considered telling him that she was not all right, that she was frightened, and suddenly quite worried about meeting his family and finding a place at one of the hospitals and making friends. What if no one liked her or wanted her there, no one at all in the whole of Ireland except him?

Her eyes slid to the back of Danny's head as he turned the steering wheel. She looked back at Branson and forced what she supposed was a weak smile.

"I'm fine," she replied. "Only a bit tired, I think."

Branson lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Not much farther, now."

He was right, for only a few minutes later Danny turned the car down a street, and then another, and pulled up before a long row of red brick terraced houses.

Danny parked the motorcar, and they all got out. Danny led the way up the walk, and Sybil was grateful when she felt Branson's hand take hers and give it a comforting squeeze.

"Look what I found down the docks," Danny shouted the moment he opened the door. They walked into the narrow foyer, and Sybil looked around her with curiosity. Branson had told her very little about his family or his childhood, save for their names and a story here or there, and Sybil found that the reality did not match up with what she had been left to imagine.

The house was smart and tidy, with a staircase leading directly up to the second storey, a little parlour to the right, and what looked like a kitchen through the back. It was plainly furnished, but warm, and its cozy charm more than made up for what it lacked in elegance.

A thumping on the staircase stirred Sybil from her observations, and she looked up to see a young man with a slight build and a shock of dark hair staring at them from halfway down the stairs. There was another clatter of feet on the steps and an aggravated shout as someone barrelled into the back of him.

"Patrick! You're blocking the whole bloody stairwell, for Christ-"

"Ah," said Danny, smiling widely. "Don't let ma catch you talking like that."

"Danny!" cried the would-be blasphemer, shoving Patrick aside to fly down the last few steps and launch herself into Danny's arms. The girl was about fourteen or fifteen, Sybil guessed, and one of Branson's younger sisters. Her fair hair was pulled fashionably over her ears, and she too had bright blue eyes.

"Maggie!" Danny exclaimed. "You're getting too damn old to throw yourself about like this, girl. What'll the fellas think of you?"

Maggie made a disgruntled sound and detached herself from her oldest brother, giving him a savage jab in the ribs for his trouble. She turned and seemed to notice for the first time that there was company, and her scowl disappeared as she abruptly turned shy.

"Tommy?" she asked softly, looking at Branson with something resembling confusion. Sybil realised with some horror that it had been years since Branson had seen any of them. She suddenly felt terribly guilty, as though she was solely responsible for keeping him from them.

"It's me," Branson replied. "Come give us a hug, would you?"

The girl took a step forward and Branson swept her into a firm embrace, lifting her right off her feet and earning a girlish giggle.

Sybil wondered when the last time was she embraced one of her own family. She found she could not remember.

Branson, meanwhile, was chatting animatedly with Danny and Maggie, and Patrick had descended the rest of the stairs and was staring at Sybil with a great deal of curiosity.

Feeling desperately and uncharacteristically shy, Sybil was tempted to shrink behind Branson, not wanting to intrude on this reunion, but at that moment he turned and took hold of her hand.

"This is Sybil Crawley," he said, "my fiancée. She's the youngest daughter in the household where I was -"

"Good God in heaven," exclaimed yet another new voice, this one coming from down the short hallway.

In the doorway to the kitchen stood a stout, middle-aged woman with strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a tidy knot, and the same bright blue eyes as her children. She wore a dark brown dress which was slightly out of fashion but very smart, and which fit her perfectly. Although her stature was slight, her look was foreboding.

"Are you sure you haven't just kidnapped the poor girl, Tommy?" asked Maggie. She was staring at Sybil with eyebrows raised in a sceptical expression – much like her brother's – which suggested she found it hard to believe that any girl would run away with Branson of her own accord.

"I haven't _kidnapped_ her," Branson replied, frowning. "We've eloped. Tell them, Sybil."

Sybil swallowed, and struggled to find her voice. "It's true," she said. "We decided to run away together."

"You're married, then?" asked his mother.

"Er – not just yet," Branson replied, sounding somewhat sheepish. "We thought it best to get the benefit of distance first, and to let her family think we'd gone over the border to Scotland to marry."

"You must be mad!" Branson's mother exclaimed. "I thought you were making a joke in that letter of yours. I didn't think for a moment you truly meant that you were bringing the Earl's daughter here to marry her."

"Well, I have, and we're here, and there's nothing anyone can do about it," Branson said, his voice taking on a tone of defiance as he squeezed Sybil's hand and pulled her closer to him.

Everyone went very still as their mother cast a stern look at the two of them. Sybil swallowed, feeling distinctly cowed, and glanced at Branson.

The woman came forward then and placed a hand on Sybil's shoulder. "You must call me Nora, dear," she said gently. She turned to Branson. "And you – I want a word with you."

She turned around and went straight back towards the kitchen. Branson gave Sybil an exasperated look before dropping her hand and following his mother, the door closing behind him.

"Well," Sybil said awkwardly, glancing at Branson's siblings, "I suppose we ought to give them some privacy -"

"Don't be mad!" chirped Maggie, dodging past her brothers and grabbing Sybil's hand, dragging her down the hallway to the door. She pressed her ear against it and gestured for Sybil to do the same. Danny and Patrick joined them, and off Sybil's surprised look, Danny winked at her.

"Not to worry, love," he said. "This is more excitement than this house has seen in months."

Sybil leaned closer to the door and tried to make out what the conversation happening on the other side.

"-can wipe that put-upon look off your face this instant, and mind your tongue as well. It's not me you have to fight; I'm on your side."

Branson grumbled something in reply to this that Sybil couldn't quite make out, and she shifted closer to the door.

"Well! What did you think I'd say?" Nora exclaimed. "That poor girl must be frightened out of her wits, you dragging her over hill and dale and across the sea and dropping her in with a pack of strangers besides!"

"For the last time, ma, I didn't kidnap her!" Branson protested. "And she's hardly feeble-minded. She chose to come with me, I've told you."

"Hmph! If I find out you've so much as touched a hair on the top of her head, by God, I'll -"

"_Ma_," Branson complained gruffly. "I love her, and she loves me. We're going to be married just as soon as we can get everything in order." His voice lowered. "And I never touched her. You know I'd never get a girl in trouble. You'd have my arse if I did, first of all."

Danny snickered, earning an elbow in his upper arm from Patrick and an eye-roll from Maggie. For her part, Sybil blushed and looked away.

"Well, it's a mighty relief to know you've that much sense, at least," Nora said. "Oh, but her family must be sick with worry. You must tell her to write them immediately. She mustn't worry them a moment longer than she has. When I think of the state I'd be in if one of my daughters did such a thing to me..."

"It's not like that," Branson replied. "You have to understand, ma, we didn't have a choice. They'd never have allowed it. One word about it and they'd have run me off the place, never let me see her again."

Nora sighed. "I reckon you did the best you could under the circumstances. 'Tis a shame, though. Folk can be so proud."

"Especially that lot," Branson agreed.

"It wasn't them I was talking about," Nora replied.

Sybil smiled. She liked the woman already.

"Well, you'll stay here until you get yourselves sorted. I want you down at the Registrar first thing to see about getting a license, do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma," Branson replied.

There was a pause, and Nora cleared her throat. "You've always been a passionate sort, Tommy. You've told us you've been in love before. Ever since you were just a lad. You'd be mad about some lass and convinced you were in love, and three weeks later you'd have fallen out of love and back into it with the girl at the shop 'round the corner, or one you saw pass on the street. So do you love this girl, truly? Enough to put her through all of this?"

"I do," he replied, his voice holding the same tone of quiet conviction it had every time he'd entreated Sybil to run away with him. "I've loved her from the moment I first heard her speak, and my love has grown every day since then, even when I had no reason to hope. I want only to be wherever she is, always."

"And does she love you the same?"

"She ran away with me, didn't she?"

Nora did not respond right away. Sybil listened intently to the silence, and was surprised to find that she was holding her breath.

"Yes, I suppose she did," Nora replied evenly. "Well. It's late and I'm sure you're both in need of a rest."

The door opened suddenly and Sybil jumped back, bumping into Danny behind her. Nora took in the assembly before her, her eyes stopping at Maggie. "I know _you_ know better, at least," she said.

Maggie's eyes dropped to the floor. But Sybil's eyes were on Branson, who was beaming as though he didn't mind in the least that they had all overheard their conversation.

"Sybil can go in with Maggie tonight," Nora said. She fixed Branson with a sharp look. "I ought to send you out back to sleep by the jacks, but I'm a tender heart. You can kip in with Patrick. Jimmy can sleep in the front room when he gets home from the pub, and go upstairs when you're all up. Mind you lot don't wake him in the morning."

"I'd best be off," Danny said, settling his cap back on his head. "Can't leave the wife to her own devices for too long, eh Tommy?"

"Be off with you," Nora scolded. "And to bed with the rest of you."

Danny departed and Patrick and Maggie disappeared back upstairs. Nora turned out the electrical lights in the kitchen and the hallway. She lit three candles on the table in the hall and, after taking one for herself, turned to them.

"Don't be long," she said softly. "Only a few minutes, mind."

With that, she went upstairs, the candlelight flickering and casting shadows up the walls.

"Are you all right?" Branson asked. "They can be a bit..."

"I'm fine," Sybil replied. "Just tired. And you?"

"Happier than I've ever been in my life, I think," he said, grinning. "I'll have to find me a job and a place for us to live before we can marry, I suppose."

"And me a job," Sybil reminded him. "I believe I'll start canvassing the hospitals this week to see if they need nurses. It's never too early to start."

"Of course," he replied. His face sobered. "Will you mind it, living crowded in with my family for a bit?"

"You lived alongside my family for five years," Sybil said. "I can live alongside yours for a while, until we get everything settled and have a place of our own."

"Yes, but you must admit that Downton is a bit more roomy than this place."

"Perhaps, but it's fine, Tom! In fact it's lovely."

Branson regarded her with a fond look, as though she had said something remarkable. Sybil felt her face heat under his watchful gaze.

"I wish we could sleep tonight the way we have the last two nights, together," he said, his voice very low. "I'll miss the feeling of your head on my shoulder." His eyes were soft and dark in the flickering candlelight, and Sybil felt herself drawn to him even as a fluttering sensation of nerves gripped her stomach.

"Well," she replied slowly, "soon enough we'll be married. And then we'll spend every night together, I suppose. Can you wait a little longer for that?"

"Yes," he breathed, smiling at her. "Yes, I can wait a little longer."

Branson leaned down and kissed her, his arms sliding around her back to hold her close. Sybil held onto his neck, her fingers running through the hairs at the back of his head. Branson sighed roughly and broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers.

Sybil closed her eyes and felt his pulse pound against her wrist, and she counted the beats as she willed them to drum into her his optimism, his enthusiasm, his all-encompassing and certain passion. She had all of those things inside her, too, but every time he turned his bright eyes on her, she feared that the contents of her heart paled in comparison.

She tried to soak up his love, so that she might have something more to give back to him.

"Come on then," he said softly, pulling back to kiss her forehead. "I'll show you to Maggie's room."

With her hand sheltering her guttering candle, Sybil followed him up into the darkness.

* * *

><p>"Are you really a proper Lady? Truly?"<p>

"I am. Truly," Sybil replied, stealing a glance at Maggie. It was midday, and the two of them were standing side-by-side in the kitchen, peeling turnips. "Only I suppose that, as I've given all of that up, I don't count as one anymore. Not really."

Maggie considered this. "And do you have many brothers and sisters?"

"No, only two sisters. I'm the youngest, like you."

"Are you? And you have no brothers?"

"No brothers."

"Brothers are all right, but it's been awful boring since Katie married in the summer. Though I do like having a room to myself." There was a pause, and then she sent Sybil a worried look. "Not that I'm cross about sharing it with you, of course! After all, you're going to be my sister, aren't you?"

"I suppose I am," Sybil replied, smiling at the younger girl. Maggie smiled shyly in return, and then turned her attention back to the turnip in her hands. Sybil looked a moment longer at Maggie before following suit.

Sybil was grateful to have at least one ally in the family aside from Tom.

Immediately Sybil castigated herself for her unkind thoughts. It was hardly the Bransons' fault if they didn't yet know what to make of her, or if they resented her interloping. She had only been there a fortnight. It would take any family time to adjust to such an abrupt addition, she reasoned.

If some selfish part of her wished they would adjust a bit quicker because she now found herself without a family of her own, she would not say so.

Sybil had sent two letters home to Downton to advise her family of her well-being and her whereabouts, as well as their plans, and to express her hope that she might hear from them.

She had not. In two weeks, there had not even been a telegram.

So if Branson's married sisters Anne-Marie and Katie turned their noses up at her, if Danny always looked at her as though she had just done something terribly amusing, if Patrick pretended not to hear her when she asked him about a book he's reading, or if she often caught Nora watching her with an expression too shrewd for Sybil's comfort, at least she had Maggie to rely upon for company. And Tom, of course, when he wasn't out scouring the city for work.

The front door opened then, a gust of wind rattling the kitchen door in its frame. Nora was a seamstress and used the front room for fittings, and Sybil had become used to a great deal of coming and going in the house during the day. So when the kitchen door opened, she assumed it was Nora coming through to make tea for a customer, and Sybil jumped in surprise when she felt arms go around her waist, and a voice speak right next to her ear.

"Good afternoon, milady," said Branson, kissing her cheek.

"Tom! You gave me a fright!" Sybil cried, dropping her knife and a half-peeled turnip to the counter and spinning about to face him.

Maggie made a vague sound of disgust. Branson turned and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Ma wants you," he said, tilting his head in the direction of the sitting room. Maggie replied only with a roll of her eyes, but grudgingly turned and left the kitchen. The moment the door swung closed behind Maggie, Branson leaned in close and kissed Sybil properly.

Sybil smiled and pulled back. "You're an awful brother," she scolded him.

"She'll forgive me," he replied blithely, returning her smile.

"What are you doing home so early?" Sybil asked. "You're never home before tea."

"I've good news and I couldn't wait to tell you," he said, taking a step back from her as he tipped his chin proudly. Sybil suppressed a smile.

"Have you?"

"I have indeed. Danny and Patrick have helped me get on with their company, after all. Wasn't sure they'd be able to, but it's all sorted. It'll do for now until I can find a place at another private home or such like," Branson said. He paused here, scratching the back of his neck and looking down at the table. Sybil watched as his brows drew together slightly in a frown.

"And how does that suit you?" Sybil asked.

At once he was cheerful again, taking her hands in his. "It suits me fine. Anything that'll allow us to have a place of our own, that'll help me do what I can to make you happy – why, that's what suits me."

"You don't have to put on a brave face for me," Sybil said softly, tilting her head to catch his eye. "Rather, I'd prefer you were honest with me. What would you like to be doing instead of driving people from place to place?"

Branson's shoulders slumped, and his smile faded. "I still want to be a part of the changes that must happen, in one way or another. Perhaps I will, perhaps I won't. I've more important things to consider now."

"Nothing is more important than your dream," Sybil argued, shaking her head. "I won't have you abandoning your ambitions in some kind of wrong-headed attempt to do the honourable thing for my sake. Don't give up now, Tom, just because we're to be married."

Branson's look was incredulous, and he gave his head a shake, as though he could not quite believe what he heard. "I love you," he said. He leaned in and kissed her, pulling her into his arms and holding her close.

Sybil closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his chest, pressing her face to his shoulder. As ever, she was uncertain what she had done to earn his admiration, or to encourage it.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he asked, his voice low and soft next to her ear. "It means we can find a place of our own."

Sybil smiled, picturing it. A small place for them, to be sure, but it would be theirs and theirs alone, a place they had worked for, had really iearned/i. A place of their own would hold such freedom for her.

"I can't wait," Sybil whispered, holding tightly to him.

"And we can be married after Sunday, when they've finished reading the banns," he said. He pulled back to look at her. "Are you happy?"

Happy. It seemed such an ordinary word to describe the riot of emotions she felt. She looked at Branson, at the happiness which very nearly beamed out of him. She smiled.

"Yes, I'm happy. Terribly happy, Tom."

Branson grinned. "We'll tell them all tonight."

Sybil could only nod, and press her face to his shoulder again.

* * *

><p>Sybil's wedding was not the splendid affair she supposed her mother must have imagined for her. She could vaguely recall talk of weddings when she and her sisters were younger; Mary declared church weddings dreadfully dull but a necessary evil, prompting Edith to scold her for blasphemy and launch into a defence of the wedding ceremony as a blessed tradition and a pillar of civilized society. Sybil remembered thinking it amusing at the time, for both of her sisters had, in the past, privately told her that they favoured a garden wedding in spring.<p>

Try as she might, Sybil could not remember what sort of wedding she had wanted for herself. It was almost as though she had never imagined anything at all, but she must have. She must have.

They were married by the Registrar on a Tuesday morning. Only Nora and Maggie were able to attend, and so the sadness Sybil felt at the absence of her own family was allayed somewhat by Branson's disappointment that most of his family had to work on his wedding day.

"If you'd been patient and been married in church, we all might have been able to attend," Nora pointed out afterwards as they left the Registrar's Office.

Branson rolled his eyes and gave Sybil's gloved hand a squeeze. "Ma, you know we don't care about all that."

"I know you don't, for you've told me enough times," she replied. "I'm only saying."

But whatever Nora thought of their marriage, she prepared them a lovely meal that evening, and all of the family crowded around the table to enjoy it. Branson's five nieces and nephews were there, and later, when they moved to the front room, many aunts and uncles and cousins dropped by to offer their congratulations. Danny opened a bottle of whisky and toasted the newlyweds, and soon everyone was taking turns telling stories and offering all manner of advice.

It all felt like a holiday, like Christmas, and for the first time Sybil felt she was a part of the family.

The hour was very late when the party began to disperse, and even as she accepted more hearty congratulations and embraces at the door, she worried about all of them having to be up at dawn to work the following day. No one seemed to mind, however, and they went happily out into the damp spring night.

"Well, Mrs. Branson," Tom said to her as they stood in the doorway watching Anne-Marie and her husband Michael herd their sleepy children down the street, "what do you think?"

"I think we would not have had half so lively a celebration at Downton," Sybil replied. Michael scooped their littlest one up into his arms, and the family turned the corner.

"I can't say I'm sorry that things have happened the way they have," Branson said. Sybil turned to see him watching her pensively. "For if they had gone some other way, we might not be married now. But I am sorry that your family has not come 'round. Sorry for them, but sorry for you most of all."

Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat and tried her best to smile for him. "Don't feel sorry for me. Not tonight. If they come 'round, I'll be delighted. But if they don't, I have a new family now, don't I?"

"You do, Sybil," Branson replied, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "You do."

Sybil closed her eyes, and did her best to believe him.

* * *

><p>Sybil woke before dawn the next morning. She opened her eyes to find herself facing Branson, who was yet asleep. They had slept together for the first time as husband and wife, on a makeshift bed on the sitting room floor. Sybil thought of the lavish honeymoon trips to Italy and Provence her friends had planned, and wondered what they would say about her wedding night, spent in a tiny Dublin row house. It nearly made her laugh to think of it.<p>

She blinked to clear her eyes, and looked at him. Branson's face was relaxed in sleep, the sardonic turn of his mouth softened. His jaw was darkened slightly with stubble, and his always neatly combed hair was all out of place. From her hands as much as a night of sleep, she supposed, biting her bottom lip as she blushed.

He had been so sweet to her when they were finally alone last night, his touch a bit uncertain, but gentle. Sybil had heard whispered horror stories of wedding nights, but hers had been nothing like that, nothing at all.

As Sybil looked at him, it struck her that she was allowed to touch him, and he her. It was silly that she should find the idea so fanciful now, after how they had spent the last weeks. But the years previous had required a gulf of propriety between them so wide that it seemed strange to her that it could now be crossed so effortlessly.

Sybil lifted a hesitant hand and brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Branson frowned in his sleep, and his hand came up to bat hers away. She laughed in surprise, and his frown deepened before he grudgingly opened his eyes.

"Did you think I was a spider, or a mouse, perhaps?" she whispered as he awakened.

"Reckon I'm still used to sleeping alone," he replied, his voice rough with sleep. "Though I did have a mouse in the cottage who liked to run across the bed at night."

"How awful! You ought to have asked Mr. Carson to have a cat in."

"Nah," Branson said on a yawn. "Poor little beggar was just looking for a dry place to sleep and a few crumbs to eat, like anyone else."

Sybil smiled. "Your pity for all downtrodden creatures is unmatched, I think."

"The only thing unmatched is your loveliness," Branson replied, his serious gaze steady on hers.

Sybil blushed and rolled her eyes, and was about to upbraid him for being a shameless flatterer, but before she could say a word, he leaned up on one elbow and kissed her, pushing her gently back onto the pillows.

He kissed her soundly, and by the time he pulled back, they were both short of breath.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," she replied, smiling up at him.

He ran his thumb along the arch of her eyebrow, just looking at her. After a moment, he shook his head. "I can scarcely believe that you're here," he said, his voice soft.

"Where else would I be?" she asked him pertly.

"Why, anywhere!" he replied. "You might have married a Baron or an Earl, or not married at all and travelled the world -"

"_Tom_," Sybil interrupted him, scolding him gently, "I've married _you_."

"You have," he agreed. He regarded her a moment longer, and then relaxed back on his pillow, casting his eyes critically about the room. "It's nothing fancy, but it's a far sight better than a dank old haymow, don't you think?"

"Quite a bit, yes," Sybil replied, resting her chin upon her hand. "Even better will be a proper bedroom, _our_ bedroom." She too glanced around them, and she could feel her cheeks heating. "Oh, goodness. I don't mind it, only I'm imagining what Mama would think. Never mind Granny. Or, heaven help us, Papa. He'd have a fit."

"Best that he doesn't know, then," Branson said ruefully. "In this case ignorance is bliss."

"Indeed," Sybil agreed, banishing the thought of her family before it could take hold and darken her mood. She sat up slightly and craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the grey sky through the drapes. The pale blue light of early morning was filtering into the room, and she shivered as the coverlet slid down and cool air touched her bare arm.

"I suppose we should get up," she said. "The whole house will be awake soon."

Branson propped himself up on one elbow, and Sybil became aware that he must not have put a nightshirt on after... She could feel herself blushing, thinking about it, and suddenly felt terribly silly and awkward, as though he was a stranger and she didn't know where to look or quite what to do with her hands.

"You look very lovely with your hair down." Sybil glanced at him. He was watching her with a curious expression on his face, as though she was something of a strange to him, also. He reached out a hand almost hesitantly and caught the end of one long curl, wrapping it thoughtfully around a finger before letting it go and dropping his hand to her waist.

"I'm sure it's a dreadful mess," Sybil said, feeling shy in a way she never had in his company.

"You might see it that way, perhaps," he replied, surprising her by leaning in and dropping a kiss on the top of her bare shoulder.

"Now you will see me in this state every day, I suppose," Sybil said. She struggled to get her bearings.

"Yes, I suppose I will." Branson's eyes did not leave her face. Sybil could feel the heat of his hand on her skin even through the coverlet and her nightgown. "I know we ought to get up and see about having a look at that flat Danny's found for us, but..." he trailed off, frowning. "The thing is, I think I'd rather stay where we are just a little longer. What do you think of it?"

Sybil swallowed, her throat dry. "I think that's what I'd like, as well."

"Sybil, do you want..." He frowned, discomfited. "That is, may I -"

"Yes," Sybil said. "Yes, for goodness's sake!"

Branson looked surprised for an instant, and then he grinned and pulled her close, his hand sliding across her side to her back. She shivered and pressed herself against him, kissing him.

Everything could wait, Sybil decided. His family, hers, jobs, a flat – it could wait. All of it could wait for this, their breathless joy.


End file.
